


Day 21: Devil With the Blue Dress On

by thebright1



Series: An Ineffable Plan: A Canon Compliant Love Story [21]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), F/F, F/M, Ineffable Valentines 2020 (Good Omens), M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Playboy Model Aziraphale, Recreational Drug Use, Sort Of, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22838206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebright1/pseuds/thebright1
Summary: “Why are you in a nightie, anyway?”Aziraphale pouts. “I like the fabric. It’s silk! Do we really have time to be discussing this?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: An Ineffable Plan: A Canon Compliant Love Story [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620406
Comments: 14
Kudos: 110





	Day 21: Devil With the Blue Dress On

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the warnings for this chapter! There is some minor non-consensual activity (nothing really graphic and nothing between our star-crossed lovers), but I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable. If you'd like to skip this section, I'll give a sum up at the beginning of tomorrow's piece, and then you can double back to read if you'd like. 
> 
> This story follows directly on the events of [ Day 8: My Angel is the Centerfold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22604578) so you might want to read that story first, but all of the works in this series are tied together, so please go back and start with [ Day 1: Chocolate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22520329) for a complete picture. 
> 
> These stories are written as part of the 2020 Ineffable Valentines challenge on Tumblr.
> 
> Update: All the works in this series are also posted as a chaptered work for easier reading/downloading: [ An Ineffable Plan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23081191/chapters/55213303)

May 12, 1971

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says. He wrings his hands again and sits on the bed, criss crossing his legs and recrossing his robe to ward off the chill coming in from the open window. “I tried to ask at the hotel desk, but they said they had no record of a Rick Farley. I’ve been calling up all the hotels in the area, but no one has a Rick Farley on record, so it must be a nickname or something. And yes, I asked for a Richard Farley, a Dick Farley, a Dickie Farley, a Rickie Farley, a Richie Farley, a-”

“I get the picture,” Crowley cuts him off. “So no Rick Farley, photographer of naked ladies staying at any local hotels. Maybe he lives here?”

“I don’t think so, he was an American, used a lot of strange euphemisms that I didn’t quite understand.” 

“All right, so that’s a distinguishing characteristic. Not many Americans in Saint-Tropez, I’d expect.” 

Aziraphale huffs. “You keep forgetting that Mick Jagger is getting married tomorrow, Crowley. The news was leaked to the press and there are thousands of photographers here from all over the world.” 

“Do you remember the kind of camera he had?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale’s eyes light up. “Ooh, yes it was a black one.” Crowley sighs heavily. Aziraphale is confused. “What were you thinking to do?”

Crowley shrugs. “Well, if you had remembered something helpful like the brand or the make or anything beside the bloody color, I could just miracle all those cameras to suddenly be put in a pile on the moon or something, but . . . ahh, nope, actually, can’t do that even if you did know what the Hell you were talking about. He might have removed the negatives.”

“What’s a negative?” Aziraphale asks. “It sounds evil.”

“Angel!” Crowley draws out the word and puts a hand to his forehead. “It’s the film, angel. The film in the camera. They call them negatives.” 

“Why-”

“Nope,” Crowley cuts him off. “Nope, when we get back to London you can buy all the books on photography and learn how all of that works, but we don’t have time for that right now. What about Bianca?”

Aziraphale “What about her?” 

“Rick got in touch with her. She must know what his real name is, or where to find him.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I asked Bianca, but she said she didn’t know, he was a friend of Mick’s. And I have been looking for Mick but I can’t find him anywhere. I asked Bianca to have Mick talk to me, but you saw the state she’s in-- it’s her wedding eve, she’s thinking about her future, not hunting down a photographer.” 

Crowley sits up. “All right, well, maybe I can find Mick. He does know me, sort of.” He snaps his fingers, and Crowley stands before him in his female form. HIs black pajamas have transformed into an incredibly tight and low-cut sequined blue dress. The dress clings to his figure. A silver chain with a snake pendant hangs around his neck, deep between the vee of his breasts. He looks stunning. “One rock star, on the eve of his wedding. If I had to guess, he’s at one of the local girly clubs drinking himself stupid and redoing his stag night.” He smoothes out his dress, wiggles his hips. “I’ll find him.” 

“Crowley!”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I don’t.”

“Well then, I’m off.”

He heads for the door, then pauses in the entranceway. “Wait, what about that maid?”

“The maid?”

“The one who Rick was asking to be Bianca’s escort? For the shoot?”

“Ohh!” Aziraphale gets it. “Oh, I didn’t think about her. I can find her. I think she said she was working a double shift tonight!” He stands, and his robe falls open, revealing the short nightgown underneath. “I can find her- you look for Mick in the clubs!”

Crowley makes a strange noise. Aziraphale follows Crowley's gaze down, looking at his exposed thighs. He purses his lips, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t have to say anything, I’ll get changed.”

Crowley clears his throat. “No, ah, no, it- you- look-“

“Exposed!” Aziraphale says. “I know.” He pulls the robe closed. “It’s so warm here, I can’t get comfortable in the evening.”

“Why are you in a nightie, anyway?”

Aziraphale pouts. “I like the fabric. It’s silk! Do we really have time to be discussing this?”

“No, no, not at all.” Crowley opens the door. “Back around 5, angel. I should be able to hit all the clubs before then.” He shuts the door behind him. 

Aziraphale feels a great relief just with Crowley being here. If anyone can help him get out of this situation, it’s Crowley. 

He takes the robe off and hangs it in the closet. He grabs the sundress that hangs next to it when a knock sounds on the door.  _ Crowley. _

“Did you forget something?” he calls as he opens the door . . .

to Mick Jagger. He’s dressed in only a pair of jeans slung low on his hips. A seashell necklace hangs from his neck. He leans against the door jamb and puts up a hand. “Hi there Zora.” His pupils are blown wide and he has a lascivious grin plastered on his face. “I heard you were looking for me.” His voice is very low. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, microseconds before Mick leans forward, arms outstretched. Aziraphale takes a step back and Mick trips. His forward momentum throws them both to the ground. He splays over the angel, his long limbs covering Aziraphale like a spider. Mick begins to kiss Aziraphale’s neck and Aziraphale cringes. “Uhm, Mick?” he asks gently. He begins to push at the man’s shoulders, softly as first, but then more forcefully as it becomes clear that Mick is not taking the hint. 

“Stop that!” He pushes hard against Mick’s shoulders. He does not want to blow his cover or hurt this man, but the sensation of Mick’s mouth on his skin makes his stomach churn. 

Mick stops and looks up into the angel’s face, the stupid grin still plastered on his face. “So you like a bit of rough, eh?” He resumes kissing Aziraphale’s neck. 

“N-no!” Aziraphale stutters, both blushing and horrified simultaneously. “And definitely not from you! You’re getting married.”

“Oh I’m not married yet, sweetheart,” he croons. He slides a hand down Aziraphale’s side, and begins lifting the short nightgown.

“Don’t!” Aziraphale says, his free hand reaching down and grabbing Mick’s. “I said stop it!”

“Zora” he says cloyingly against Aziraphale’s skin. “No need to feel embarrassed. Bianca said you wanted to see me and there’s only one reason a girl who looks like you wants to find a man like me the night before he gets married.” He rolls his hips into Aziraphale’s own to emphasize his point. 

Aziraphale feels righteous fury fill his veins. His nostrils flare. “It’s Aziraphale,” he says angrily. “Not Zora.” He takes a deep breath and then pushes against Mick, reminding himself to hold back so he doesn’t kill the man. Heaven would be very upset to find out his mission failed because he murdered the groom. The man goes sprawling arse over teakettle and lands in a heap on the floor. His head thunks against the door of the hotel room and he groans. 

Aziraphale stands, smoothing down his nightgown and running his hand shakily through his hair. He has used his powers against a human only a handful of times in his life, and every time it has disturbed him. He was made to love all of the humans; physically hurting them makes him slightly sick. He takes a few deep breaths, calming himself, then comes over to Mick, who is sitting up and clutching his head. “You bitch,” he moans. 

“You deserve worse,” Aziraphale huffs.  _ And you won’t get it, _ he thinks, sighing.  _ At least not in this life. _ “I asked Bianca if I could see you because I need to find your friend Rick.” 

Mick blinks blearily at Aziraphale from his position on the floor. “Who?”

Aziraphale stamps his foot and puts his hands on his hips. “Rick, you insensate ruffian! The man who took naked pictures of your soon to be wife this afternoon! Where can I find him?”

“How the bloody hell should I know?” he says loudly. Aziraphale goes down to one knee in front of him. Mick cringes, scrambling until his back hits the door. “Don’t hurt me!” 

Aziraphale raises one eyebrow and snaps his fingers. He’s never sobered up a human before, but their corporations are basically the same, so he imagines the same process. Down the hall, Keith Richards finds his liquor bottles full once again and rejoices. 

Mick looks at Aziraphale with wide slightly crazed eyes. With the alcohol out of his system, it’s just the uppers he took earlier working on him and he’s done an awful lot of them. “What do you want? What should I do? Don’t hurt me, please. Tell me what you want. I’ll never put my hands on you again, I swear.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “Well, that’s true, you won’t. Now, I want to know where I can find Rick.”

“Rick, which Rick? I know a lot of Ricks. Everybody’s named Rick. Ricks everywhere.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says, enunciating his words and speaking very slowly. “I need Rick Farley. The American. The one who took pictures of Bianca this afternoon.The photographer for the magazine.” 

“Oh him, that guy. I know that guy. His name’s not really Rick. He just goes by Rick. His name is Leon. I know him. He took pictures of Bianca this afternoon. I know him.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Tell me where he is.”

“Here, he’s here, in Saint-Tropez. He’s going to take pictures tomorrow. More pictures. Pictures of the wedding. I told everyone else they couldn’t come in the Church, but he’s in. He’s a good guy. Like him. I like Rick.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Where is he now? Where is he staying in Saint Tropez?”

“Here, at the hotel. I went by and saw the shots of you and Bianca. Beautiful, so beautiful, both of you. But no, I won’t touch you ever again, I promise, just don’t hurt me.” 

“What room number!” he practically shouts. “You scoundrel, stop your blubbering and just tell me what room number.” 

“316.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Thank you.” And now . . . he holds out a hand. Mick cringes at first, but Aziraphale continues to hold it out and smile in a friendly fashion. Mick gingerly accepts. Aziraphale hauls the rock star to his feet, and then turns him around. He opens the door. “Now, you just go back to your room, and think about your beautiful soon to be wife, and  _ don’t you ever tell anyone what just happened and remember that you don’t deserve Bianca,”  _ he says coldly. He shoves Mick out the door and slams it behind him. 

He’s cold and a little shaky all over and wants nothing so much as to be back in his bookshop at home. But he has Rick’s room number. He looks at the clock. Crowley will be back in a half hour. 

Aziraphale picks up the crumpled sundress from where it lays on the floor. He changes quickly, and then decides to do away with the nightgown altogether. He drops it in the garbage can in the room. He decides not to tell Crowley about Mick’s advances. Crowley can be a bit . . . hotheaded about things like that. He’s only gotten worse in that respect over the years. 

He’s about to sit down and maybe have a fortifying glass of scotch when there’s another knock at the door. He trudges to the door irritably. If it is Mick Jagger, so help him. . . 

He opens the door and Crowley bursts in. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale’s brows knit together in confusion. “What? Nothing! Nothing’s wrong. What do you mean?”

Crowley is looking around the room like he’s searching for a tiger.“ _ Something _ happened. I felt it through the bond. I was walking the circuit and suddenly I felt this divine rage. Felt like a bee sting.” 

_ Oh no,  _ Aziraphale thinks. He has to get a better handle on the soul bond. This is the second slip he’s had this century. “Oh, that,” he says instead, brightly. “I just had to . . . deal with an unfortunate situation. But, I’ve got good news-- I have Rick’s room number.” 

“Oh!” Crowley says. “That’s great news!”

He doesn’t ask how, and Aziraphale is grateful. “Let’s see if we can make a plan on how to get the uh,  _ negatives _ , as you call them, and I’ll tell you about it later, shall we? It’s almost morning.” 

******

In the end, getting the negatives back from Rick, alias Leon, is ridiculously easy. Crowley sends a message up to Rick’s room asking for him to meet Aziraphale in the hotel bar. When Rick leaves, Crowley sneaks into room 316 and miracles all of the items in the room to the empty apartment above Aziraphale’s bookshop. Problem solved. 

Crowley and Aziraphale go down to the bar. The hotel is completely deserted-- just staff, quietly smiling at the two ladies who have decided to have a liquid lunch. The paparazzi, the wedding party, and all of the guests have left for the wedding. They get strawberry daiquiris with fancy umbrellas. Then they get pina coladas. Then they get hurricanes. Then they get mai tais and walk out onto the beach. 

Aziraphale is still wearing his sundress. Crowley has changed into a blue bikini and a diaphanous cover up. They take beach chairs and sit looking out at the water. 

“Miracling the furniture away was actually a stroke of genius, Crowley. I was thinking I should probably actually put furniture in that apartment, in case HMRC ever comes to check up.” 

Crowley says, “They don’t do home inspections, Angel.”

“Even so,” Aziraphale says, “I should have a bed. I’ve never had one before.”

“What are you going to do with a bed? You don’t sleep!”

Aziraphale considers. “But you do. You might be over one day and feel like. . . Napping.” The implications of this hit him as soon as they have left his mouth. “I mean, or if your flat burned down or something. You could stay with me.”

Crowley huffs. “I’m not planning to need a place to stay because my flat burns down anytime soon.” 

They lapse into silence, looking at the sunlight sparkling on the surface of the water. 

“What did you tell Bianca about me?” Crowley asks suddenly. “How did she know all about  _ Anthony _ ?”

Aziraphale smiles at the memory. “I told her I knew a thing or two about how to deal with rascals.” He grimaces then. “Although you are, I must admit, much ni-- I mean, much better than Mick Jagger. As a whole . . . being. Entirely. I had no idea what kind of scoundrel he was when I made the comparison.” 

Crowley turns to him, but Aziraphale keeps his head resolutely straight. 

“You shouldn’t throw away that nightgown” Crowley says, apropos of nothing. He turns his head back to the water. “I saw it in the trash can.” 

Aziraphale turns to look at him, gauging how much Crowley knows. How much Crowley senses. He’d quite forgotten how Crowley could sense lust. Aziraphale sighs. Of course Crowley didn’t have to ask what happened. He knew everything already. Aziraphale turns his head back towards the water, takes a sip of his drink. “Why is that?’

“Well, you might need it now that you have a bed.” He pauses. “You might feel like . . having a lie down sometime.”

“I tried that almost 2000 years ago.”

“Yeah, times change. Situations change. Time changes a lot of things. Heals a lot of wounds, they say. Besides,” he continues, “you said you liked the fabric. And it did look nice on you.”

“Maybe I’ll buy another one,” Aziraphale says softly. “That one . . . doesn’t have a lot of good memories with it.” 

Crowley nods. “I can understand that.”

“This really has been the worst holiday ever,” Aziraphale complains. He finishes his mai tai and looks at the water. He suddenly feels so downtrodden about the entire experience. He’d almost messed up the miracle and the temptation and Crowley had needed to come to his aid. . . Again. And then there was that awful incident with Mick Jagger. He shudders. “I wish I could have gone somewhere without any people.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. “Who would cook food for you?”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “All right, maybe just a few people.” He gazes at the sea. “Maybe on a secluded lake, in a little cottage.” 

Crowley nods. “Sounds lovely.” 

“You could come, too,” Aziraphale says mildly, lost in his daydream. “It would be lovely to have a nice relaxing holiday with you.” He realizes what he has said and backtracks quickly. “I mean, someday.”

“I’d like that, Crowley says idly.   
  


Aziraphale looks over at him. He’s surprised. “You would?” 

Crowley’s face is neutral. Honest. “Sure.” 

“I mean... in a friendly way. As friends. We are friends?” Aziraphale asks. He feels just a little bit desperate, and hates that he’s asking this question, but, after what Crowley said about Mick Jagger . . .“We’re best friends, aren’t we? I mean aside from . . “ he waves between them to indicate the soul bond. “From what I did back in Eden.” 

Crowley smiles gently. “We are best friends, angel.” 

Aziraphale feels a wave of relief and love come over him. He is not sure if the love is his or Crowley’s. “Oh, I’m so glad you think so.” 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Everything that happened in this story is a product of my imagination and I mean no offense to Mick Jagger or Bianca Jagger. (I assume Keith Richards would not be upset if alcohol miraculously appeared in front of him... at least, not in 1971). 
> 
> Thank you for all your kudos and comments!


End file.
